


Seven Stars

by Lasgalendil



Series: Starlight and Song [6]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adunâic, Bad Puns, Cross-cultural, Dick Jokes, Dwarf/Elf Relationship(s), F/M, Interspecies, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, Interspecies Sex, M/M, Puns & Word Play, Same-Sex Marriage, Sindarin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 13:56:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2775548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elf loves Dwarf.<br/>Dwarf loves Elf.</p><p>Wherein cross-species lovers are not exactly subtle, Faramir mutters some dirty talk in Numeanorian, Hobbits are not nearly as naïve as they seem, Sam is not so simple as you thought…and wherein love-stricken Legolas makes terrible, trilingual puns (not, however, always entirely on purpose).</p><p>…Tolkien language fetishists of the internet, you’re welcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Stars

...Fucking Elf.

Bloody, sodding Elf.

Bloody, sodding, pretty, silly, fucking [rather fuckable] Elf.

Dancing like that. As if he belonged to the whole damned Eored and not to me and me alone! Damn him, sod him, fuck him, dancing like an unbeaded, unbraided whore!

Fucking Mahal, Legolas! Your Valar did not teach you to dance so. Who taught you to move like that? Why do you shame me so?

Bloody, sodding, fucking Elf. Fucking Elf in heat!

I am harder than stone, torn between anger and jealousy greater than a dragon’s lust. If this is gold sickness, then I understand Thorin at last. These others here? They have no right to look at my Elf. To see him so. I am not a jealous miser: I am a Dwarf and I have my pride. I will have what is mine, and no one else. I have half a mind to fuck him, right here, right now, claim him violently for them all to see and Durin’s saggy left testicle take those who take offense, and half a mind to take an ax to any and all that dare applaud him.

Elf is not for you.

This dance was not for you.

It does not belong to your eyes, and indeed in seeing, you have stolen, and I will tear them from your skull.

Elf is mine. His dance is mine. Every movement he makes—that flash of throat? lithe limbs?—is mine.

I am Dwarf. His hair I have beaded and braided. He is mine, mine alone.

Mine, I tell them. Mine.

Nimble, dancing, pretty, sweaty, perfect, perfectly fuckable Elf is mine.

…but you would not know it. No. Not from the way he dances. Is there a Man here not hard? A woman not wet?

[Is this how you would scorn me, Son of Thranduil?]

[I am Dwarf. I will have my vengeance.]

“Did you see me, _melethron-nîn_?”

“Did I see you? Did I see you?” I hiss, trembling with anger and lust and fear as I haul him out of the mead hall. “The whole of bloody Meduseld saw you!”

If he is troubled by my tone, then good. Daft, sodding creature

[Pretty, silly creature. Wicked, clever creature. Poor, lovely creature.]

[My creature. MINE.]

has no idea the danger. And I would not have him know.

[I love him. This much I can do. I can spare him the shame of Men.]

“I—I only thought—“

“Oh, so you were bloody thinking, were you?”

“I—I only—I wished you to see. To know.”

“You daft, sodding creature! Wished me to know what?”

“I—“

“Enough of your bloody, Elvish nonsense! Inside!”

Barely have I shoved him into the tent before he sheds his clothes. Fast as fluid he sheds his clothes. Fucking Mahal, Legolas, who have you known but me who has taught you to move so? How do you know to torment me?

"Not here!" I tear myself out and away from his soft, pretty mouth. "Bloody, sodding, Elf! Not here!"

* * *

I round the corner, and stagger right into the Elf. Perhaps I am drunk, drunker than a woman's wont, but I have never before known him at least to be so clumsy.

“Forgive me,” I say.

But he is smiling secretively, eyes on the stars, and pays me little heed, as though caught in an Elven dream in which I am only the smallest of ripples, already fading, dying, gone.

“…Legolas?”

“Yes?” And suddenly he is here with me again, grey eyes sharp and clear.

“I—“ Oh, but he is _rumpled_. Thoroughly. His hair is half undone, his clothes hastily assembled, and he smells—oh, that smell!—of sex and springtime, like soft pine, greening hay, rushing streams of melted snow off the mountainside, the still-bloodied wool of newborn kids, the hot sweetness of a foal’s first breath. It is enough to make a woman wet with want.

[Try not to think on it.]

[You have thought on it.]

[Bloody hell.]

“Where are you going? Should you not be drinking and feasting with the others?”

[Or yet fucking your Dwarf in your tent as you so clearly intended?]

“I have come outside,” he states as though obvious, “to drink the night air and to see what the wind and sky are doing. And later I may run in the long grasses down to the river to bathe in the cool waters and lie in the sands and see if I might catch seven red stars.”

[Bloody weird Elves.]

“You are mistaken, Master Elf. The red star rises in the East,” my brother states, pointing. “The Great Bear is to the North. The Entwash is to the West. You will find neither red bears nor red stars there.”

His lips pull into the smallest of smiles, enough to melt a maiden’s heart. “Think you so? Farewell, I go to find the sun!” and he is off, caught back in the current of whatever Elven thoughts capture him, singing as he goes, if indeed he does not dance.

My husband—my courtly, composed husband (who indeed does not approve)—bursts into a fit of laughter best becoming one of the Hobbytla. Indeed, even in the privacy—damn my fool brother!—of our own tent I have never known him so, and I find the sight of it quite endearing.

[If not arousing.]

[…bloody Elf.]

“Man of Gondor, what ails you?” my brother growls. “You are giggling like a maid newly wed!”

“Seven stars!” He gasps, clutching his knees. “He forgets himself! In the common tongue it is innocent enough, but in the Noble Tongue? And the tongue of the men of Numeanor—oh, do you not see?”

My brother shakes his head. “Mad. Gondorians. Mad. The lot of them. Sweet sister, enjoy your husband.”

“Oh, I rather mean to.”

“He would rather a book in bed than you.”

“…and your child bride?”

“Damn you, woman! Peace!”

* * *

 “And you! Master Dwarf!”

“Aye, I am a Dwarf. What of it?”

“Think you to go for a ride at this hour?”

“And if I wish to ride, what business is it of yours?”

“Forgive me, I had thought but you hated that horse.”

“Aye, and if I hate this horse yet wish to ride, what business is it of yours, I wonder?”

“And where do you ride to?”

“Wherever it bloody please me, Horsemaster!”

Oh, bloody, fucking fuck.

[For the last time, man, DO NOT THINK ON IT.]

“Do you—“ I turn to my sister.

She grimaces. “Have the horrible feeling they believe they are being subtle? Yes, damn them.”

…and behind us, her bloody husband still hiccoughs and howls. “Seven stars! Seven stars! Oh, do you _still_ not see—”

* * *

 My husband is yet laughing, and I would know him so. “I take it then you do now approve?” I ask as I undress him.

“Seven stars! Seven stars!” he cries. “Oh, my Éowyn, my Luthien, _Míriel, melethril-nîn_ , _zîrân, zâira nênud_ …” he kisses me as he has never yet kissed me before. “Do you not see? He is as besotted with that Dwarf as I am with you. How may I thus begrudge him?”

* * *

He is a Dwarf. He does not hear.

He is a Dwarf. He does not see.

I am Elf. I scream for him that he may hear. I dance for him so he may see.

...He will not.

[Perhaps--perhaps it is because he does not wish to see me? Am I not--does he not find--me beautiful?]

[Is this why he will not love me?]

He is a Dwarf. He speaks with his hands, not tongue.

So I will speak to him with mine.

[Do I not please you, love? Have I not pleased you? Do you not love me? What must I do for you to tell me so?]

“Oh, enough, damn you!” he shouts. “May a Dwarf not take a bloody piss!”

[I--]

“I—“ he does not say “I love you.” He does not say “I do not wish to frighten you. “ He does not say “Forgive me.” He is a Dwarf. He takes what he wants.

Yet he looks at me so strangely. What does he want? Have I not given him everything, everything he has ever asked? Everything there is? Have I not touched him, kissed him, licked him, sucked him as he has taught me? Am I not Elf? Am I not Thranduillion? Have I not knelt or scraped in the dirt as he has…has done his fucking? Is this not enough? What more does he want? What more can he want? Does he wish only to--to hurt, to humiliate--me? What have I left to give?

“What do you need?” he asks gruffly. “Legolas. What do you need?”

“I—have only wished—to have done as you asked—do you not—have I not—“

“Damn you, Elf!” he growls. “What do you need?”

 [I?]

[…You. Always. Do you not know?]

“What do you need?” He grabs me roughly, angry tears in his eyes. “Bloody, fucking fuck, Elf! Mahal’s great cock! I’ve fucked you five ways from Durin’s Day and it’s still not enough for you! How am I to bloody know what you want if you won’t tell me?”

[But I have not words. Not for this. Not for you.]

[Just love me, Love. Just--love me.]

I cry. Cling to him. He holds me. Kisses the rain as it forms on my face.

“Damn you, Elf,” he whispers through his beard. “Damn us both.”

I am Elf. I am not meant for this love, this Dwarf, this fucking. It burns fast, and will fade, and I? I will be alone. Yet you are my love, my light, my life, my Dwarf, my delight, my everything, my Earthenstar, and every moment with you I will make memory. My people may damn me, the West not receive me, but this cannot be taken:

I am loved, loved by you, and with that I may be content.

* * *

 "And where have you been?”

“Away. Oh, I have been away!” Legolas sings (and the sound of it is sweet!), more to himself than me. “Over rock and under tree, by caves where never sun has shone, by streams that never find the sea, over snow by winter sown, over grass and over stone, under cloud and under star…”

“Wherever the hell he’s been,” I breathe into my husband’s ear, taking him in my hand once the Elf is out of sight. “You may take me there this night.”

Then—

“Oh, under star indeed!” And my husband, Lord of Gondor, sits on the ground like a child and snorts and laughs until he cries.

[It's not funny.]

 [...Shit.]

[It is.]

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that.”

“Not yet.”

“Not for another—“

“Five—“

“Maybe fifty—“

“—or five hundred—“

“Leagues.”

“At least.”

“What, Masters Hobbytla, Perian?”

“His ears,” the Perian states. “He’ll hear you.”

“Damned Elf. Can’t take a piss in the dark without him hearing every drop.”

“Merry!” My husband takes offense. 

“Oh, sod it.  Your wife might be the Queen of Rohan or Gondor or whatever, but she’ll always be Dernhelm to me, and I knew her first,” this Hafling child chides him. Then, turning to me, “You think that was a rough ride, you know how long a walk it is from Rivendell to Gondor? And every step of the way, that sodding Elf hearing every bit?”

“Gondor?” his kinsman asks. “I started in Lorien. Thank goodness for the Lady of Light.”

“Pippin!”

But he is unabashed. “If Gimli can think it, so can I.”

“All we’re saying is, we think the Rohirrim have it right. If you go on a bloody quest, it’s best to bring women, or at least leave the Elf behind.”

“Mind you, I _did_ think he was a woman," the Perian frowns. "For at least the first few weeks or so.”

“Until that stream. Bathing,” my Hobbytla makes a face. “Nasty shock.”

“Masters Hobbytla,” I ask, amused. “Whatever do you mean?”

“We were on the road for months, woman, and the closest any of us got to touching ourselves was taking a piss in the mornings! And it’s all his bloody fault!”

“Oh, but those were some good pisses,” the Perian interrupts dreamily. “Do you know, I miss pissing like that. Holding it in all night just to let it all out in the morning, all at once—“

“Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took!” My husband cries, only finally catching on.

[Bless him.]

“Oh, enough,” Master Hobbytla crosses his arms. “Your wife has ridden to war and seen ten thousand men piss from ten thousand cocks. I doubt she takes offense at stubby, shrunken ones such as ours.”

“Besides, we’re not children.”

“We’ll, least I’m not. Pip here?”

“I still think it counts.”

“It doesn’t count.”

“Fine. When we get home, I’ll ask Fatty Bolger…and I’ll tell him what you did in the Gaffer’s hayloft with his sister after Mr. Frodo’s last birthday party. We’ll see if _that_ doesn’t count.”

“Oh, no you don’t!” and—for all their words—they are off chasing like children through the camps.

My husband (Helm help me, my husband!) is still laughing, and indeed is in increasing danger of rolling in pig shit.

“And at what are you laughing now?” I scold him.

“Those poor young Hobbits," he gasps. "To think, they came all that way, to find not only the Elf doesn’t mind, but is an artful exhibitionist.”

“Shh!”

[You doubt they know.]

“And why are we shh-ing?”

“It’s not like _he_ bothers.”

“You know?”

[Of course they know. They are Halflings, not children.]

“Of course we know!”

“How long have you known?”

“Bloody obvious, isn’t it? “Oh, Gimli, my friend?”

“Yes, Legolas, my friend?”

“Take a walk in Lorien with me, my friend.”

“Sit in this boat with me, my friend.”

“Ride this horse with me, my friend.”

[You are a Shield-maiden and a Daughter of Kings. You will not laugh.]

“That is a mighty stiff ax you have, my friend.”

“And a rather long bow have you, my friend.”

[You laugh.]

“Share this tent with me, my friend.”

“Spend two bloody days in a cave with me, my friend.”

“Let’s go to the forest together, my friend.”

“Anywhere you go, I will go, my friend.”

“I mean, by that time, if one of them had birthed a baby, I wouldn’t’ve been bloody surprised,” my Hobbylta sighs.” “And then there’s the names. I mean, even the Elves got to calling him Elf-friend by the time they left. I thought it strange at first, and if anyone would have anything to say about it it would’ve been them…but I’m a Hobbit, and they’re, they’re Elves and Dwarves. Maybe they’re just different than us.”

“I asked Frodo about it,” the Perian pipes. “He said it was just a term of respect or endearment. They call him Elf-Friend, too.”

“Did he?” my Hobbylta says brightly. “Then he thinks you’re too young to hear it. Because I asked him, and he said it was the difference between…oh, I can’t explain. But there’s no difference in Elvish for ‘friend’ and ‘love’, is the best I can put it.”

“So Frodo is…an Elf-friend, but Gimli is…what? An Elf-lover?”

“I suppose. Sounds a sight better than ‘fucker’.”

“ _Elvellon, Elveleth, Elvelannen_ ,” my husband says softly. “ _Nimruzîr, Nimirzîrim_.”

“Oh, yes," the Perian nods. “ _Clearly_ that helps.”

“It is the difference, Master Perian,” he explains patiently, “between being the lover or beloved of all Elves, and one in particular.”

“Well, either way, it’s just a shame they never had a proper wedding.” Master Hobbytla shrugs.

“Marriage by cloak—or by Elf custom, whichever it may be,” I correct him “—is a proper wedding. At least to my people. And his.”

“Oh, you know what I meant,” he flushes. “A big party. With lots of drinking. To celebrate. They’re so happy together it just seems strange not to.”

 “Did you know, I’m still mad about that,” the other laments. “No wedding. Imagine the cake. The ale. The presents!”

“And what present would a Hobbit give to the Lords of Aglarond and Ithilien?” my husband asks, amused.

“Give?” they ask at once, scandalized. “Who _gives_ presents at a wedding? That’s ridiculous!” And with that, they are away, already laughing at the strange ways of Men, of Elves, and Dwarves.

"Did you know, dear husband," I haul him up into my arms, "that once not long ago I had thought _your_ customs to be strange?"

* * *

“Merry?”

“What, Pip?” I puff around my pipe. Longbottom Leaf, the Southfarling's finest. A lucky find, so long from home.

“Do you think he knows?”

“Who? Sam?” I say scornfully. “Sam’s simple, Bywater folk. Their lot wouldn’t approve of an improperly peeled tater, let alone back-country cloak weddings of Elves and Dwarves. No, Pip. He doesn’t know. Best he doesn’t.”

* * *

 “Did I know?” my Samwise chuckles as we climb into bed for the first time. “ ‘course I knew.”

“But you’ve seen so many strange and wonderful things, Sam, that least of all. How—how can you love me?”

“Oh, Rose Cotton, my Rosie…the way that Beren loved Luthien, Faramir loves Éowyn, Strider loves Arwen, the way that Gimli loves Legolas and Legolas loves him, that’s how I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Melethron-nîn (Sindarin) “My (male) lover”  
> Míriel (Quenya/Sindarin) “Jewel-daughter”/”sparkling like a jewel”. As Faramir would speak both Quenya and Sindarin, you will have to ask him which he meant.  
> Melethril-nîn (Sindarin) “My (female) lover”  
> Zîrân, zâira nênud (Adunâic) “Beloved, desire is upon us”  
> Elvellon, Elveleth, Elvelannen (Sindarin) “Lover of Elves, Love of Elves, Beloved of Elves”  
> Nimruzîr, Nimirzîrim (Adunâic) “Lover of (one specific) Elf, Lover of (all) Elves”
> 
> And what’s so damned funny?  
> Otselen (Quenya) “Seven Stars”, name of the Great Bear  
> Edegil (Sindarin) “Seven Stars”, name of the Great Bear  
> Gimlî hazid (Adunâic) “Seven Stars”, possible name of the Great Bear, and a common refrain in poetry referencing the Sigil and heirlooms of house of Elendil “Seven stars, and seven stones, and one white tree.”  
> Gimli (Adunâic) “Star”
> 
> Éomer understood half the pun: “Seven Red Stars” might mean “The Great Red Bear”, an affectionate pet name if ever there were one.  
> Faramir understood more: The sounds of “Seven Stars” in Adunâic (precursor to Westron), if mistakenly misheard as Sindarin (Legolas’ native tongue), literally state “Gimli (the) Dwarf.”  
> “Gimlî hazid” (Adunâic) Seven Stars  
> “Gimli i-chathod” (Sindarin) Gimli the Dwarf.
> 
> Hazad(Adunâic) “seven” and hathod (Sindarin, mutated to *chathod) “dwarf” are both derived from “khazâd”, the Khuzdul term the Dwarves use for themselves.


End file.
